No Permanent Damage
by hiyoris-scarf
Summary: Ever since they first met, they always had a way to tell each other everything would be okay. Sometimes, it's just not enough.


She surveys the damage in voiceless horror. All she wanted to do was sweep and mop the tragically dusty dining room floor, but the blind corners of the hallway betray her. She trips on the large foot of someone coming the opposite direction, hears a young male voice curse volubly and unblushingly, and the broom handle swings up sharply as she goes down. The wooden handle makes sickening contact, and there's another, louder curse.

She scrambles to her feet, dropping the broom, and wonders if by running away now she'll be able to escape eternal humiliation. She's not so lucky. Her victim turns toward her, holding his bleeding temple and looking murderous.

"S-s-sorry," she forces out, begging for a merciful spirit to remove her from the planet and from her churning embarrassment.

His eyebrows relax when he sees her panicked face; he even smiles a little. He always looks a little dangerous when he smiles, and she wishes it didn't make her stomach spin.

"Hey, it's okay! See, no damage." He takes his palm off the wound and taps his forehead to show her, but then winces at the contact. "Well…no _permanent_ damage," he amends.

She finally finds her voice when it's obvious he needs to have his injury taken care of. "I'll get you something to clean that—wait here, please?"

She runs to the bathroom, grabbing what she needs. Returning to where he stands, she has him bend a little so she can reach the cut.

"Ow," he says, only semi-joking as she cleans the site and puts a small bandage over it. She winces as he straightens again, upset that one of her few interactions with her father's talented pupil included nearly inflicting accidental brain damage.

"I'm so sorry, again. I have to be more careful going around that corner."

"Please, Miss Hawkeye, if it was anyone's fault, it was mine." He looks a little amused at her shaky apology, but certainly not unkind or dismissive. "You should be at liberty to carry brooms wherever you want in your own house."

He leans to pick up the one she dropped and hands it back to her.

"It's just Riza."

She tries to smile back at him, but she can still feel the anxious cast of her face, and he must notice it too, because he seems to think for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice is deep and considerate, and ignites something unfamiliar and unsettling inside her chest.

"Well, _Riza_ , you have no reason to worry. Everything in here—" he taps his dark head "—is just fine. Would I be able to be this charming otherwise?" Reaching boldly for her right hand, he turns it palm up, curls her fingers inward, and swiftly kisses her knuckles. Grinning mischievously, he releases her again as her mouth drops open a little bit.

"See? There's your proof that everything is okay."

With that stupidly attractive smirk still on his face, Roy Mustang leaves her there in the hallway, staring mutely after him and running her fingers over the hand his lips had touched.

* * *

She can feel his gloved fingers, trembling and gentle, painting invisible characters onto her back, skirting the symbols that already brand her. "Don't warn me," she whispers, anticipating his hesitation. His movement pauses, and after she hears his shuddering inhale, those fingers resume their exploratory path between her shoulder blades, spreading out down her spine and broad against her ribs, and she slips the belt between her teeth.

It hurts. More present than the pain is the thick odor of charred flesh that nearly gags her. Her vision swims with images of the burning city, echoes of its corpses ringing through her teeth. But the nightmare can't claim her, not as long as she carries forward with her purpose. There can be no more flame alchemists.

Afterward, she sits rigid, careful not to stretch her tortured skin. He takes care of her, bandaging his handiwork. She works her fingers together and swallows the hard gasp when the bandages touch her burns.

"Can you lift your arms?"

His voice is heavy and toneless. She only nods and lifts her arms above her head, letting him slide a soft shirt over her upper body. He moves out from behind her and comes to stand facing her. From where she sits, before she looks up into his face, she sees his strained knuckles, skin stretched over sharp bones like he's punishing his hands for what they did to her.

Slowly, she lifts her eyes to his face, and his expression rocks her composure. His features are drawn in agony, eyes blazing with a mixture of fierce protectiveness and utter self-loathing that she wishes didn't stutter her breathing.

"Roy…" she begins, knowing she's unable to voice her gratitude, knowing equally well that nothing she says will erase his memory of what she's just had him do to her.

"Please." His hoarse voice breaks into the silence when her weak words trail off. "You can't let the only time I touch you be to hurt you."

She stares up at him, the façade of fellow soldiers totally abandoned for one vulnerable, twilight hour. She reaches her left hand forward and slowly takes one of his. Peeling the glove away from his skin, she runs her pale fingers over the creases in his palm, down to the bend of his wrist where she grasps and tugs him a little bit closer. Curling his abused knuckles inward with one hand, she leans over them and silently presses her dry lips to his skin.

There's a quiet sob as the bloody sun dips below the horizon. She thinks it was hers.


End file.
